Nature v Nurture: and Socially Unfortunate Behavior --

I'll never understand why my mother feels the need to belittle people around her when she is feeling inadequate.  This is something that she has done since I was a child, and, unfortunately, it was something that I had learned from her (as well as a host of other socially unfortunate behavior).  

I think I never understood the adverse effectsteasing could have on people -until I did -- 

Once I understood that this behavior was hurtful, I made the conscious decision to stop.  I never met any harm by it, and I did it just as often to myself.  For a laugh, I was just as likely to poke fun at myself as I was at others.  Because I don't think we should take ourselves too seriously.  But sometimes it's just not nice.

It's a method to deflect attention off of how you're feeling about yourself.  Maybe it's because she thinks that people will notice her flaws if they are not kept busy obsessing over their own imperfections.  Maybe it's more personal than that, and she wants a distraction from something she is upset about.

Unfortunately, she seems to do it most amongst groups of people.  Maybe it's attention seeking or maybe it's just for a laugh.  But it really is hurtful as a daughter to have your mother belittle you (whether the statement is true or not) amongst acquaintances.  Sure, it might go in one ear and out the other, people might not give the statement any weight - or maybe they do.  Either way, it sucks for a daughter to have a mother talk about private matters in public; it sucks for a mother to paint you out to be something you're not in the eyes of others.

On the other hand, if you are so brazen as to give it right back to her, she immediately becomes a victim.  Immediately, you have offended her, you have hurt her, you don't care about her or her feelings, you don't love her.  I wonder how, if this is how it makes her feel, she cannot understand that it makes me feel the same way.

Much of my instability,inadequacy,inability to copeis a gift from my mother -- 

However, I am observant enough to recognize my flaws and to see how they are affecting those around me.  I see my mother in myself (the bad), and I take steps to make sure I change.  My mother is not at all a bad person, and I love her very much; she does so much for me that I feel bad even complaining.  There are many wonderful things that she has passed on to me as well.  But I feel the hurt that she has inadvertently caused me and those close to us, and I try my hardest to stop myself from going down the same path.

But I am only 25

and she is double that -

why do I take responsibility

while she remains the same?

It doesn't make sense to me.  With double my years, how is it possible that she has never recognized her flaws?  I know I am flawed.  I know I can be awful.  But I am sorry for it.  I do what I can to better myself and my treatment of others.  She does not see it - maybe because she doesn't want to.  And she is not sorry.  

She is a beautiful, wonderful person.  She can be so caring and so giving.  I understand that we all have moments of weakness in which we might slight other's needs.  But it is not fair to belittle and blame others for our own unhappiness. 

I often jokingly recount how my mother can send me 2-3 text messages and, before I've even seen them or had the chance to respond, have an entire argument with herself resulting in her not speaking to me for weeks at a time.  And, while humorous, it is not a joke.  I understand going up against feelings of abandonment and how devastating that can be.  But how can I abandon or disrespect you if I don't even know you're reaching out to me?

So, I guess my question is: 

Were we bornor made to bethis way?And at what point is'that's just the wayI am'no longeran acceptableexcuse?

xLoJu

L'Americana --

I would like to talk some about what it means to be an American in the eyes of people I have met around the world and how it differs drastically from the way I feel about my heritage.

First of all, let me just say that while I hate being in the USA, I don't necessarily hate my country.  I just don't fit in here.  To put it simply,

I'm just

a crappy American --

I've never fit in.  I've never really had friends.  I've never been "cool."  I've never been like everybody else.  Unfortunately, I come from a beach part of the country, and I am just not made for the beach.  Even when my weight was no longer an issue for me, I just can't stand the sun.  It's hot.  It's uncomfortable.  It's the sun.  Don't get me wrong, I am a water sign, and I love the water, but I just can't stand beach culture.  Or, for that matter, heatstroke...

When I moved to the North-East for my sophomore and junior years of high school, I did fit in a little bit better, but it probably had something to do with the fact that a great percentage of my school was non-native.  And, apart from this, the people - even American - that I was lucky enough to attend school with seemed to be just as diversified as me.  Of course, there were the popular cliques that I had nothing to do with, however they did not see themselves as "the cool kids" the way it had been for me previously - those were just their groups (and not mine).  And I didn't mind.

As a senior, I was lucky enough to attend school in Italy.  I have many humorous anecdotes, misconceptions, and just plain crazy moments to share, but I will save those for future posts.  What I would like to share tonight is just how different Italy felt to me than the U.S.

For the first time in my life, 

everything just felt

right --

Just like me, everybody was open, honest, and straight-to-the-point.  There was a warmth and an acceptance that I had never felt in my mother-country.  I felt loved by the family I was living with, in a way that was different even from my real family.  Sure, I don't doubt that my blood family loves me unconditionally, but with their expectations of me for my future, it didn't always feel that way.  I guess deep down I knew that my parents would love me either way, but the pressure to become a law-practicing-brain-surgery-ing-stock-breaking-millionaire was always on.

In Italy, it seemed like people loved their kids no matter who they were (or weren't).  People live at home long after their 18th birthday, people experiment with many different fields (many unconventional or fiscally unpromising), and, for lack of a better word, some people just fucked up.  And nobody cared!  They were still loved and la nonna always made sure that they got a second-helping at dinner.

When I didn't get into NYU early decision, I was heartbroken.  I cried.  I wanted to go home.  I felt like a failure, and I wanted to give everything up.  It didn't matter that I had gotten into Vassar, Sarah Lawrence, the New School - none of this mattered to me, it felt like my life was over.  I wasn't able to achieve what I had wanted to.

But with a choice 

"Vaffanculo!"

from la nonna

I was 

reborn --

Suddenly, the conventions of my upbringing no longer mattered.  Suddenly, I was free of my emotional shackles.  Suddenly, for the first, brief moment in my life, I was me.  I still had time, so I applied to an American university in Italy.  They didn't have anything I wanted to major in, but I didn't care.  I just wanted to stay in Italy, this ancient country that had liberated me from the land of "freedom and liberty."

Suddenly, 

I was

L'Americana -- 

University started, and though I eventually left it to "travel the world" (big dreams, big failure - but more on that later...) with my Italian dog and the Italian boy I had met (who would eventually become my husband), that period of my life was the one and only time I can say I was completely and utterly depression-free.  I was far away from the expectations of my loving family; I was alone in one of the oldest cities in the world, and yet everything seemed so fresh and new; each day I was inspired by the people I met and situations I encountered.

I danced - boy, did I dance!

I had never felt the freedom to dance before.  And though I was in an American university, I had no American friends.  I was completely immersed in Italian culture (and, honestly, before my husband, many Italian boys ;).  For the first time in my life, being "L'Americana" was something cool.  I was cool.  Though, in all honesty, that being the American meant nothing to me.  I could care less about the fact that I was cool.  And, maybe it was all the dancing, maybe it was just my happiness, but

the more pasta I ate, the skinnier I got --

I had real relationships.  I mean, apart from the boys (that had never paid attention to me Stateside), I had my first real friendship.  Then there were a few.  But there was that one girl.  And, as sad as it is that we hardly speak anymore, I still think of her all the time.  I actually just recently sent her a message in a very emotionally unstable moment because I was thinking about what could have been in my life had I not made the uneducated decision to put our friendship on the back-burner for the new things I was experiencing with my (later-to-become) husband.  My ancestors on my grandmother's side were from the part of Italy that her family is from, and we often joked that

we understood each other 

so easily

so perfectly

that our great, great grandmothers

will have certainly been

the best of friends --

But this was certainly the only time in my life that being American meant anything (useful) to me.  I was an expat (and, at heart, I will always be).  It was a conversation-starter, a reason to stand-out, when being different finally meant being something good.

And, as soon as possible, I'm out of here again with my copy of The Sun Also Rises in my backpack.

xLoJu

I can see for miles --

I am not good at many things.  However, I am good at reading people.  No matter what you say, I know what you mean.  No matter how you act, I know how you feel.  Though I do understand that people sometimes have reasons for not directly saying what they mean, 

I can't stand a liar.

I am not good at lying.  But let's talk about the difference between lying and manipulation.  For instance, if I flake out on a friend, even if I have the intent of coming up with a totally believable excuse, I always fail miserably.  With me, you will always get the hard, honest truth (unless you're asking me if that dress makes your @ss look big).  However, when it comes to work situations, for instance, I have no problem manipulating a situation to get my way.  

For example, there once was a girl whom I thought was my friend.  Well, it turns out she wasn't (I have learned to trust less, as hard as it is).  At first when she started acting towards me in a way I found hurtful, I was just that: hurt.  But then I got tired of being upset by her.  So I pulled the manager to the side one night, crocodile tears and all, and explained how I didn't understand what I had done.  I used all the right words...

I even suggested that maybe 

this place was not the right fit 

for me and that perhaps I 

should move on as I did not

want to cause drama for those

that were there before me*

*i.e. that girl

But I knew I was going nowhere.  First of all, I liked the place.  I really did.  Second of all, though I was one of the last people hired, I was one of the most efficient people on staff (this was a bar).  Customers loved me - and in the service industry, it's all about the customer.

I don't know if it was the tears, the use of the word "bully," or the passive-aggressive suggestion that I might quit, but the girl was put in her place by the manager.  And eventually fired.  And that was fine by me.  Maybe it was wrong, but relationships and business are two clearly separate things for me.

Back to lying.  I really can't stand a liar.  I see no reason to lie unless it is for the mutual benefit of both parties involved (i.e. not telling your mother-in-law that her meatloaf sucks; hiding a surprise party for someone's birthday, etc).  I really just don't get it.

Why is it easier for people to lie

than to tell the truth?

How do you build a relationship with someone who lies to you about the littlest things?  Maybe they're lying about the big things - maybe they're not.  But how can you be sure?  How can you trust a person that lies to you?  How can you form an intimate relationship with someone that cannot be honest with you?

Many times the things people lie about aren't even important.  That's what makes it even harder to understand.  If you want to buy something, if you want to do something, if you want to go somewhere, why do people feel a need to lie to their partners about it?  Many times the subject matter wouldn't even matter if it were spoken about honestly.  

What makes it 

a bone 

of contention

is the lie 

itself --

What makes it so important is the dishonesty itself.  What makes it such a problem is the fact that someone is hiding something from you.  And what makes it the biggest problem for me is

the fact that 
I will always
know you're lying --

Oftentimes, those lies also play into how the parties involved are treating each other.  When someone in a relationship has something to hide, they automatically become more closed off and litigious.  They automatically start making excuses for themselves.  They automatically distance themselves from the other person involved.

So, how do you come back from a lie?  Can you even ever fix a relationship that has been riddled with lies and the eventual hurtful words (and situations) that surround them?  Is it worth putting in the effort necessary to accept and move past these lies?

When is

"I'm sorry,

I'm a monster"

no longer 

enough?

xLoJu

Wanna fight?

The main difference between my husband and I is that I internalize every little thing while he externalizes his rage over, oftentimes, absolutely nothing.  While I will feel badly about something I've done (or even something I haven't done), he is always angry about what he perceives is being done unto him.  Though I've always known this, he made it abundantly clear today while he shouted:

All this suffering is because

they have wished it upon me; 

I am cursed -- 

It really comes down to taking responsibility for your own actions.  While I do not wish unto him (or anyone for that matter) the responsibility I feel for every little thing, I do wish he would stop complaining about everything and blaming everyone for each little inconvenience in his life.

For the millionth time, he told me he just wishes he could die.  While I am no stranger to the feeling, I am also painfully aware that I am the master of my own misery.  If I am on an upswing or I am feeling really rough, I know that only I can change the way my life, my day, or even my moment is going.

We are all responsible

to create

our own

happiness -- 

You know that person who complains all the time but never does anything to change his situation?  Yes, of course I love my husband and want to be there for him to hear about his day and to let him get that work drama off his chest.  However, there comes a time where the monotonous complaints are so regular that I get tired of hearing them.

Either you take steps to change or you grin and bear it.  Of course I feel badly that my husband is unhappy, but I am also upset that he brings all that unhappiness into our home.  If it's that bad, why isn't he doing something to change it?  Making one call for an interview and not following up is not enough.  He has so many complaints but does nothing to better himself or situation.

The reason to be in love with someone

is that when nothing else goes well

they make everything worth it -- 

So what am I here for?  If you don't work as hard as you do and deal with as much drama as you do to be able to come home to my open arms, then what's the point?  If I am not worth it, then what's the point?

Though I have digressed slightly from my original intent when I started this post, it all boils down to one thing:

Why does my husband constantly want to fight?

We have been married so long that I have learned what does not work when he is in a rage.  Unfortunately, however, it seems like nothing works.  You know when you're in a bar, and there's that one guy who's angry and doesn't care with whom or about what, but he's staring people down waiting for someone to say something to start a fight?  That's how I feel with my husband.

I've learned that removing myself to the other room and staying away from his rage is the best way to avoid an argument.  Cruel words and pride aside, I am done with the codependency.  I am done with the fight.

But my husband seems like that guy in that bar that just wants to fight.  He will swear at me from another room, slam doors, and break things that he knows are sentimental to me.  I know he is trying to get a rise out of me.  But I don't understand where he wants to take it.

I'm not that guy in that bar, and I will not fight with him.

I will not 

be sucked

into his

tornado --

So what does he want from me?  On the off chance that he does get a rise out of me, and I do ask him what the hell he expects from me he tells me to leave him alone.  So why is he so clearly trying to provoke me?  Sometimes I want to just ask him:

Wanna fight?

xLoJu

Happy being unhappy --

Though I wouldn't call myself an artist in any professional sense of the word, I am rather left-brained.  It would seem that often madness and emotional turmoil go hand in hand with a heightened imagination and deeper need to nurture the soul through creative endeavors.

Growing up, my father always played the Blues. 

Though he doesn't make as much music anymore, as a child I was constantly surrounded by musicians from his time touring before he met my mother.  We constructed a wall to block off the family room area and built a studio.  At one point I owned 11 basses, 1 upright bass, a mandolin, a bouzouki, a banjo, a harmonica, 2 keyboards and a host of smaller, eclectic instruments (as well as all my father's guitars).  

Also a night-owl like me, I remember my father awake until the wee hours of the morning listening to music through headphones turned up so loud that I could still hear the faint melody through my bedroom walls.  He was always so excited by the interest I had taken in making music.

I still make music every day.  I also draw, paint, record...perhaps the thing that draws me most, however, is my writing.  When I was younger, I wrote thousands of pages about the fantasy world I dreamt I lived in on my blue-rubber iBook.  I wrote so much that I had to get an external hard-drive - it's funny to think how computers have progressed over the past 15 years.  This world I visited each day inside my head was so real to me I have to wonder if, in some other reality, it was not.  Though I have abandoned my fantasy world for a more realistic, somewhat existentialist genre of writing, my words have never lost their importance in my life.

Now fast-forward to when I was 20 years old and...

I accidentally committed myself.

But that's another story entirely.  However, this is the one time in my life when I was prescribed psychopharmaceuticals.  For about a month, I took the medication as directed.  To be honest with you, yes, they did work.  I wasn't depressed anymore.  I didn't feel everything so desperately to the core of my being to the point of fearing myself.

But I didn't feel anything anymore.

I wasn't depressed.  I wasn't happy.  I wasn't excited.  I wasn't afraid.  I couldn't feel love.  And I could not love.  And this, to me, was just no way to live.  

I wasn't inspired anymore.  I didn't create anymore.  I felt no drive to release the bleeding color from my mind and onto paper.  I had no passion.  So I stopped taking them.  

What makes life worth livingis the fact that I feel everythingso deeply thatit sets fireto my soul --

It's hard for many people to understand, just as I'm sure it's easily understood by many others like me.  But I really am happy being unhappy.  And as hard as it sometimes is to survive, 

I wouldn't trade my depressionfor all the happiness in the world --

xLoJu

Always been crazy --

Throughout my childhood, I suffered silently through feelings of self-hate, paranoia, and the fear of disappointing my family.  Although I performed well in school - performed being the operative word - I was never truly happy.

My fear of doing "something wrong" stopped me from truly experiencing the life I was, at the time, blessed to live.  My childhood passed me by without any meaningful friendships - or, for that matter, really any friendships at all.  At an age where I should have had innocent relationships with my peers in order to understand myself and really blossom into the person I would have become, I studied hard, had manners, and always did the right thing.

But I was fat.

And this was always held above my head as the ultimate failure.  My wealthy relatives on my father's side insisted that my mother had "made me fat" out of spite to embarrass them amongst their friends in high society.  My father asked, although out of concern for my health, whether I did not want to sit in a chair without taking up the whole thing.  And my mother continued to feed me.

Ironically enough, I was never really bullied in school or made embarrassed because of my weight.  I mean, not that I was not an outcast - believe me when I tell you I was - however it was because of the fact that I was, rather, mentally and emotionally different from my peers.  Irony comes into play because what did make me feel bad about my weight was those same wealthy relatives asking me "if I even cared" about the fact that I would be bullied at school.  

Early on I realized that there was something 

going on with me that was not quite right.

For some time I believed it was just part of growing up.  But this faded quickly as my friends moved through the passes of puberty, making mistakes, and experimenting all the while coming out on the other side unscathed.  I did nothing for fear of the consequences.

Each emotion hit me like a ton of bricks.  I hated myself.  I was a failure.  I was fat.  I was ugly.  I sliced my fears into my skin.  I didn't understand.

But I was perceptive enough to know I needed help - so I asked for it.  Although I wasn't taken seriously by my family - you're healthy, you have enough money, you have everything you could ever want and more - they eventually gave in around age 14 and let me see a therapist.

That lasted about three sessions.  My mother, also being emotionally unstable (I hear these things run in families), fed what information she saw fit to my doctor.  My doctor never seemed to remember my name, what grade I was in, or much of anything we talked about - at, I'm sure, hundreds of dollars an hour.  The one thing she did seem to remember, however, was that she was convinced that I was

pretending to have multiple personalities.

This will have had something to do with the fact that I told her I blacked out and found myself 12 miles away from home on the doorstep of the one woman I knew whom took the time to accept me.  And something about the fact that I might be "slightly depressed."

Whether I was taken out of therapy or stopped going, I can't recall as is the case with much of that period of my life.  What I do remember, however, and what has remained the same to this day is my family's belief that I don't need help, and that I'm only really suffering because "I'm just too smart."  

Well, I think if that were true, now 11 years later, I would have somehow found a way out of this mess.

One day I will.  As it is now, I am (almost) 5 years married to the love of my life.  They say that opposites attract.  Well, not in our case:

I think when you're nuts you exude some sort 

of energy that attracts others

exactly like you.

From my husband, my family, and even down to the few people I am fortunate enough to consider true friends, they are all completely out of their minds.  Every last one of them.  And I say this with love.

This journal will be comprised of my thoughts and anecdotes as I try to understand what's wrong with me, what's wrong with my husband, and what's wrong with our relationship--

xLoJu